


The flag of my disposition

by LiveOakWithMoss



Series: Silmarillion Prompts [36]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Finrod: 'Oh buddy', Friends to (Accidental Voyeuristic Mutually Masturbating) Lovers, M/M, Masturbation, Turgon: 'This better not awaken anything in me'
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-03
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-07-19 18:43:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7373173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveOakWithMoss/pseuds/LiveOakWithMoss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turgon does not intend to stumble upon his friend in a compromising position, but he does. Turgon does not intend to stay and watch, but does. Turgon does not intend to be stirred by this incident, but you can guess the rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The flag of my disposition

Turukáno glanced up, taking in the dappled light of the forest clearing, then down at his feet, hopping a little to evade a bramble. Then he looked at the clearing again, and nearly swallowed his tongue. When he had set off cheerfully that morning to find his friend, he had not expected to find him like this.

“Is Findaráto home?” he had asked his aunt, not “Is Findaráto in some carefully secluded and out of the way place?”

“Where can I find him?” he’d asked, not adding, “and when I do, will he have clothes on?”

At least, he thought, his aunt had been unable to answer either of those questions; Eru willing her ignorance would be preserved. He tried to figure out what to do.

“Oh, pardon me,” should of course have been his automatic reaction had his voice not shriveled up entirely before more than the _oh_ could cross his lips. His reaction then should have been a scandalized hand over the eyes and a swift retreat back the way he had come, but there too his instincts failed him. He did back up, but he would be forced to confess that it was less retreat then withdrawing into a more private bit of shadow.

So as not to embarrass his cousin, he told himself. So as to save them both a tremendous amount of awkwardness.

Well, more awkwardness.

But reclining on the white robes spread out over the grass, apparently entirely unaware of his scandalized audience of one, Findaráto merely moaned slightly, and arched his hips. There was absolutely nothing awkward about his movements; Findaráto managed perfect grace even now, at the most compromised of moments. Turukáno felt himself go red to the tips of his ears and swallowed hard. 

He had seen his cousin naked before, of course he had. They had grown up together, grown up running into the waves of Alqualondë, dipping in the clear waters of Luvailin in the heat of the day, reclining in crystal waters under the mingling of the lights. They had never been shy about their bodies, as shyness and privacy had been a luxury ill-afforded by those with as many siblings and cousins as their family provided.

And Turukáno had honestly never paid his cousin’s body much mind. He had always been far more interested in the swelling breasts and round hips of the maidens who would bathe just out of sight on the other side of Luvailin’s willows, wringing out their long hair and laughing at what he could only assume were inscrutable feminine topics. He would sometimes work so hard not to obviously peek at their water-dappled curves that he would get a crick in his neck and a twitch in his eye from sidelong glances. Findaráto would always splash him and laugh when he caught him at it, and tell him to dunk his head under the water until he could control himself.

Male bodies had never much amazed him, and after all, they were no novelty in a family so rife with male offspring. “What is so compelling about the masculine form?” he’d asked once, absently poking at a nude statue of Nerdanel’s. Findekáno had laughed a long time and slung an arm around his shoulders and said, “Oh little brother, thank Eru for you or Father would truly be without hope for our house.”

But if the masculine form was not so compelling, then what emotion was palpitating his heart so wildly? He knew objectively that Findaráto was fair. Everyone knew that Findaráto was fair. But he had never fully appreciated how, well, _captivating_ his cousin’s body could be, stripped bare and gleaming with sweat as his hips arched and his hand moved over himself and his hair caught tangled beneath him and his voice – rising –

“Oh,” whispered Findaráto, as if addressing some phantom or fantasy only he could see, his eyes closed and his head flung back. “Oh, Turukáno…”

Turukáno froze, immobilized with shock. He had been poised on the edge of the decision to leave, however much a certain instinct – curiosity, perhaps – had wanted to linger just a little longer. But then came Findaráto’s voice, low and broken, and the way he had spoken his name…

Turukáno had never heard his name sound quite like that before.

For a moment, he tossed around the idea that Findaráto had seen him and was calling out to greet him, but surely he would have opened his eyes for that, or would have, at the very least, stopped fisting his cock.  _Basic etiquette, that,_ thought Turukáno madly. He allowed himself to acknowledge that the phantom Findaráto must have been addressing was himself, and his mind very briefly stopped working altogether as the weight of this hit him.

Then he swallowed again, letting his gaze fall on the way Findaráto was touching himself. They had spoken of such things before when they were younger, with snickers and embarrassed whispers as they put their heads together under a blanket and gossiped, and he remembered the conversations giving him a little thrill of excitement. But that lightly titillating thrill was a far cry from actually seeing another participating in what he himself only did in the seclusion of his own room. He watched the movement of Findaráto’s hand, and realized the motion was familiar, the stroke of fingers and flick at the top of each stroke very much like what he was used to. Mortified, he felt his own cock stir, as if in recognition.

“Turno,” moaned Findaráto again, and mortification became a distant echo to the way Turukáno’s heart accelerated. Now there was no doubt that he was aroused, so immediately and painfully so that he had to press his palm between his legs.

The implication that his oldest and dearest friend – and cousin – was clearly thinking of him as he pleasured himself gave Turukáno a queer feeling in his stomach. He felt almost queasy, but at the same time he could not deny the arousal quickening in his loins. _You wouldn’t,_ he thought to himself, just as his fingers, as if of their own volition, began to unlace his breeches. _You don’t think of him that way!_

 _Maybe you should start,_ another part of his mind whispered.

Turukáno wrapped his hand around his cock.

He braced his back against a tree and held his quickened breath behind his teeth as he watched Findaráto panting on the grass. He was still scandalized at the scene, still shocked at the revelation of Findaráto’s fantasies, still horrified at his own boldness, but somehow all of those emotions were combining in a way that heightened his arousal rather than killing it.

His breath came quicker as he watched Findaráto arch his hips all the way off the ground, his cousin crying out faintly and then wrapping his fingers around the base of his throbbing cock. Turukáno bit his lip until he drew blood, seeing that Findaráto was right on the edge of climax and fighting to hold himself back. An unfamiliar part of his mind supplied him with the image of Findaráto, on the edge of orgasm, suddenly opening his eyes and locking gazes with Turukáno. He imagined both of them pushed over the brink, spilling at the same time even as their shocked and horrified gazes met. Turukáno gasped aloud at the thought and immediately clapped a hand over his own mouth, terrified by how loudly it had escaped him. But Findaráto, still panting, had not noticed. Instead, he had begun to move his hand again, more slowly, clearly trying not to finish too quickly. He never even opened his eyes.

To his surprise, Turukáno felt vaguely disappointed.

But now Findaráto was sticking the fingers of his free hand into his mouth and sucking on them, a simultaneously crude yet stimulating gesture, and Turukáno felt his eyes grow wide at the sight, unconsciously matching his own strokes to Findaráto’s slow and steady ones. _What was he doing?_

Findaráto pulled his fingers from his mouth and reached down between his spread legs.

Turukáno bit down hard on his own fingers to keep himself from crying out. Instead he slammed his back against the tree, shaking the boughs and sending a shower of acorns to the ground. Once again he wondered, with tight and terrified anticipation, if Findaráto would notice and open his eyes, see him even as he – oh, Valar – slid a spit-slick finger behind the tight sac of his balls and –

Turukáno’s eyes bulged.

Findaráto moaned again, higher and wilder, his hand still wrapped around his cock even as he worked a finger into himself, and Turukáno tried to remember how to breathe. He had heard the dirty songs and stories, had overheard some of his older brother’s murmured conversations and insinuations with their eldest cousin, but still, some things had never occurred to him.

Perhaps Findekáno was right to have called him hopelessly uncreative.

Findaráto had released his cock altogether now, two fingers thrust into himself, and flung an arm over his head, fingers tangling in his own hair. Turukáno, who had been matching his strokes to Findaráto’s, paused for a moment, half wondering if he should imitate Findaráto and probe between his own buttocks, but as Findaráto added another finger, and Turukáno decided he’d experimented with enough depravity for the day.

Perhaps he could try it another time.

Now Findaráto’s free hand was stroking over his chest, fingers catching at a nipple, and the choking breath this elicited along with the hot flush running down his chest made Turukáno convinced that this touch was nearly as arousing to his cousin as the work his fingers were doing below. Turukáno quickened his own pace, resettling himself and cracking a twig beneath his feet as he did. For a moment his heart thundered in his chest and his cock throbbed in his palm – _surely_ Findaráto would look up at that sound, and he could practically feel the hot humiliation rising in anticipation – but his cousin never shifted his attention.

Which was a good thing, of course.

It wouldn’t take him long now, and judging by the rate of Findaráto’s breathing, it wasn’t going to take him long either. Turukáno was just wondering if it was possible for Findaráto to come without a hand on his cock, just three fingers buried in his ass and a hand pressed to his own chest – when Findaráto did.

His back arched and he cried out, a single, clear word.

“Turukáno!”

“Ingoldo,” Turukáno moaned, before he could stop himself, and spilled onto the ground.

In the rush of pleasure, it took him a moment to realize what he had done. Then he jerked back, slamming his elbow into the tree, and fumbled to hide himself. But this time Findaráto’s eyes did open, and he gazed back at Turukáno.

There was no surprise in his expression.

“I – I was looking for you – ,” Turukáno stuttered, trying to tuck himself back into his breeches and mis-lacing them in the process. “I only – ”

“I am glad you found me,” said Findaráto softly, apparently unabashed by the fact that he was naked and splashed with his own seed. He rolled onto his side, brushing at his stomach with the corner of his robes, and sat up. “Thank you, that was the best afternoon I’ve had in a while.”

As the meaning of Findaráto’s words sunk in, Turukáno felt his legs go shaky. Unable to speak, he obeyed wordlessly when Findaráto patted the ground beside him. He stumbled over and collapsed down at his friend’s side, too embarrassed to look at his bare chest.

There was a long silence, while Findaráto hummed and cleaned himself up.

“You are not mad?” whispered Turukáno wretchedly, after several minutes.

“Of course not.” Findaráto looked at Turukáno very fondly.

“You really knew I was there? The whole time?”

“My dear Turno,” said Findaráto, twisting his sweaty hair into a knot at the back of his head and shrugging his rumpled robes over his shoulders. “I promise you no one pleasures themselves with quite so much _spectacle_ unless they’re putting on a show for someone.” He paused. “Probably. I must say, though,” he poked Turukáno’s arm gently, “you made it very difficult for me to keep up the pretense with you generating the noise of a concussed boar back there. Has no one taught you subtlety?”

“There is a lot,” mumbled Turukáno, “that I am learning I did not know.” And he sank his head into his hands as Findaráto laughed.


End file.
